They drove on at a walk, the led horses following. The shadows lengthened, the gold light of the afternoon grew more golden. They passed through the ancient village of Tibberton and heard the rooks calling in the parsonage trees. They passed through Normanhurst Park, under oaks that may have sheltered Robin Hood, and the rooks were calling there. In the silent stretches of the road they heard the first thrushes and the evening singing of the warblers. And every living thing, bird, tree, and grass, bore witness that it was spring.
For two hours Mr. Carteret hardly breathed. He was riding in the silver bubble of a dream; a breath, and it might be gone. At the Abbey, perforce, there was an end of it. He roused her quietly, and she responded. She was able to walk up the steps on his arm, and stood till the bell was answered. When he left her in the confusion inside she gave him her hand. It had the same cool, smooth touch as of old, but its strength was gone. It lay in his hand passive till he released it. “Good night,” he said, and hurrying out, he mounted his horse and rode away. He passed some people coming back from hunting, and they seemed vague and unreal. He seemed unreal himself. He almost doubted if the whole thing were not illusion; but on the shoulder of his scarlet coat clung a thread that glistened as the evening sun fell upon it, and a fragrance that went into his blood like some celestial essence.
When he got home, the afterglow was dying in the west. The rooks were hushed, the night was already falling, and the lamps were lit. As he passed through his hallway, there came the touch of a cold nose and the one little lick upon his hand. “Get down, Penwiper,” he said unthinkingly, and went on.
That week, before they let her see people, Mr. Carteret lived in a world that had only its outward circumstances in the world where others lived. He made no attempt to explain it or to justify it or yet to leave it. Several of his friends noticed the change in him, and ascribed it to the vague abstraction of biliousness.
It was a raw Sunday afternoon and he was standing before the fire in the Abbey library, when Miss Rivers came noiselessly, unexpectedly, in. Mrs. Ascott-Smith, who was playing piquet with the Major, started up in surprise. Miss Rivers had been ordered not to leave her room till the next day.
“But I’m perfectly well,” said the girl; “I couldn’t stand it any longer. They wouldn’t so much as tell me the day of the month.” Then for the first time she saw Mr. Carteret. “Why, Carty!” she exclaimed. “How nice it is to see you!”
“Thank you,” he answered. Their eyes met, and he felt his heart beating. As for Miss Rivers, she flushed, dropped her eyes, and turned to Mrs. Ascott-Smith.
“My dear young lady,” said the Major, impressively, as he glanced through his cards, “it is highly imprudent of you to disobey the doctor. Always obey the doctor. I once knew a charming young lady—”
“I hope I’m not rude,” she interrupted, “but I might as well die of concussion as die of being bored.”
“But you had such a very bad toss, my dear,” said Mrs. Ascott-Smith.